


The Lioness in Winter

by Wil



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bitchslap, F/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wil/pseuds/Wil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Cersei Lannister is the Lady of Winterfell. Some things change, some things don't.</p><p><b>Teaser: </b>
<br/></p><blockquote>"You should know better than to speak this way about the heir of Winterfell," Cersei replied. She raised her hand and almost struck him, but he reached to grab her wrist, holding tight. The men of Winterfell moved, but two seconds too late – perhaps it was on purpose.</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	The Lioness in Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Violaswamp](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Violaswamp).



> Written in the asoiaf_exchange winter challenge.

Cersei stood and wandered over to the window, looking over the courtyard. There had been yet another spat with Theon Greyjoy – the hostage, she reckoned, had absolutely no manners. Her eyes returned to the courtyard. If she had her way, he would have been sent away as soon as she'd had her first – but if there was one thing Eddard Stark would not grant her, that was the departure of Theon Greyjoy. It was perturbing, to a point – he seemed to be growing closer to her husband, loyal and obedient almost in the manner of a son. It reflected poorly on Joffrey, but what could she do?

“Mother,” Myrcella asked, “Why does Father never smile?”

Cersei stirred from her contemplation. “Because the Warden of the North has vast responsibilities,” she replied . So did she, she thought, so did she.

  


* * *

  
The door was open without warning and Rodrick Cassel entered – he bowed low, but there was something in the way he looked at her that spelled out irreverence. No matter how much she tried, it seemed that the knight's whiskers always bristled in disapproval when they were in presence. “My Lady,” he said, “there has been another incident.”

Behind him, Joffrey Stark – she hated to think of him with his full name, just Joffrey was so much better – was coming. “He started first,” he said, and he was all red and a bit bloody. Myrcella rushed to her brother's side and was dutifully – predictably – ignored.

“What happened?” asked the lady of Winterfell.

“He called me a bastard,” Joffrey yelled indignantly as he pointed at Theon Greyjoy.

“I only meant it in the figurative sense, my lady,” the Ironborn replied with utter cockiness. There was something about the way he looked at her – it was almost a leer, as if the youth's eyes were tracing the curve of her corsage and insinuating his lust between her breasts.

“You should know better than to speak this way about the heir of Winterfell,” Cersei replied. She raised her hand and almost struck him, but he reached to grab her wrist, holding tight. The men of Winterfell moved, but two seconds too late – perhaps it was on purpose.

“And you should not strike the _trueborn_ son of Balon Greyjoy,” he hissed in her face – and she thought there was a threat in her voice. “I am your husband's guest, _woman_.”

“Don't,” Cersei hissed, – what as she going to say? Touch me? She had almost hit him herself. She could have sworn those were the words she had chosen for him. “-- look at me like that, Theon Greyjoy.”

He chuckled, young and self-assured and full of self importance. “I wouldn't dream of offending you with my looks, Lady,” he replied, eyes locked in hers.

She gasped, and let out a frustrated sound. “Get this thug out of my chambers,” she ordered sharply. “And get Old Nan.”

* * *

  
In the quietness of her bed, Cersei touched herself. She had told her husband that she preferred to sleep alone – it was not that he was ugly, no, but she preferred the freedom of solitude to constant company.

This, like everything else, she had weaseled from him with apt efficiency – the visits to King's Landing, where Jaime was still in the service of fat king Robert Baratheon, the long trips to Casterly Rock and the relative peace he granted her when she was in Winterfell. In the ensuing days of their uneasy marriage, he had been stern and unbending, but unfailingly gentle and respectful. In the weeks that had followed, she had eventually given herself to him – with distaste, alas – in order to ensure a measure of peace.

It had been a strange thing, that – but when her father had wanted to offer her hand to Robert Baratheon, he had been preceded in extremis by the Dornish proposal. Elia Martell would father heirs to the throne, she thought bitterly. As for herself, she had a cold keep to look out for, children who were as beautiful as her and Jaime and a babe growing in her belly – and this one, she realized, was Eddard's Stark's git. Jaime would not be pleased – but Jaime had nothing to say, did he? She did what she had to, as always. Ned came to her, at night, sometimes, and when he did she fulfilled her conjugal duties, but without taste.

She preferred her own hands to his prick, she realized. Her hands moved to her breasts, pinching a little – the stimulation made her lick her lips and she arched a little, one hand traveling down to the golden triangle between her thighs. She moaned a little when she touched herself and a finger slid deeper in her sweet recesses. Her eyes were almost closed, she would have murmured Jaime's name, when the door opened with a discreet creaking sound. She was entirely quickened – for once, if Eddard Stark wanted her ---

“You.”

Theon Greyjoy looked at her, grinning. “Yes, me,” he said as he wandered over and leaned against the wall close to the bed. “Are you complaining, my lady?”

Cersei gathered the sheets around her hurriedly. “Get out of my rooms, now.” But she was not screaming.

The young man's hand – he must have been seventeen, eighteen at the most – reached to touch a lock of her hair. “You know very well that you want me, Lady Cersei,” he said slowly. “And I know for a fact that you haven't had a man in your bed in a long time.”

She groaned and moved away, eyes on him, though. “Get out, Theon Greyjoy, or I shall scream.” It was barely a hiss.

His hand dropped. “Very well,” he said after a moment. “That's too bad. I could have given you a good ride.” He made as if to move from the bed.

“Wait.”

He paused. “Yes, Lady?”

“Undress,” she said, quietly. “I want to see what I'm bargaining for.”

He turned around, smirking, and his clothes fell to the ground. She almost called the guards, then – so that he would be taken in flagrant delicti. But rather, she braced against the bed, thighs spread over the plush furs. “Show me how you can please a woman,” she ordered him. “With your mouth.”

Theon came over, eagerly, his member taut as was the rest of his body. “You don't want me to take you like a real man?”

“You're not a real man,” she replied, and she took a handful of his hair, bringing his face down – he did not resist, though, and kissed her nether parts sloppily, his nose buried amidst the silken curls of her mound, rendered sticky with intimate juices. Cersei moaned when his tongue found her inner pearl.

She did not let him have his way until she had come once – but by then, she cared little to control him or not, and when he reached over to hike her legs around his waist, she did not protest. When he entered her in one strong movement, she gasped – and it was not for pain. When he labored over her in grunts, teeth catching on to her earlobe, she bit him back.

* * *

When they were done with each other, Cersei Lannister leaned on her side and looked at the young man next to her. He wasn't good looking like her brother – oh, no-one could be. But he was strong, and willful, and the way he had touched her – he could do, in Jaime's absence. His head was resting on his arms, and he opened a mocking eye at her.

“Well, my lady. Shall you scream, now, or shall I leave?”

Cersei swatted him, playfully. “Perhaps a bit of both, Greyjoy.”

“I'd rather you call me a man, woman,” he replied, seriously.

“Maybe you'll have to earn that,” she teased.

When he covered her mouth with his, she did not protest. After all, a bored woman needed entertainment, didn't she?

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Elise (minviendha) for beta-ing this.


End file.
